


don't think you could forgive you

by five_lanterns



Series: manager!kageyama [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (mostly on kitadai's part), Angst, Author's Favorite, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, I love him, Lack of Communication, NOT MIDDLE SCHOOL THAT'S FOR SURE, Pre-Canon, and where does he get them?, angst for my bluberry son, bc he needs literally all the hugs, but u don't gotta read that to get this, every single fucking one of them, prologue of the manager!kageyama fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 17:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10518666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/five_lanterns/pseuds/five_lanterns
Summary: I don’t understand, Tobio thinks distantly as the match starts up again. I tossed. It was a good toss, a strong toss, a toss fit for a-His breath hitches, and his ribcage is suddenly an unbearable constraint. It’s squeezing him, all pressure and purple bruises and glass shards, and Tobio wants to tear open his chest so he can breathe.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Prayer in C" by Lilly Wood & The Prick with one minor alteration 
> 
> so!!!instead of writing the next chapter of "i was drowning, deeper than the sea", i wrote this blurb thing
> 
> oops
> 
> this is probably the best thing i have every written okay even tho it's not the longest i'm proud of myself cuz i have a lot of trouble not writing in third person omnipotent n stuff idek don't ask
> 
> and now it's the prologue to me and bruxism's manager!kageyama series

Tobio’s focus is narrowed on the ball as it falls towards him from above. A moment later, it lands on his fingertips, and it’s a calculated matter of pushing up, quick and smooth, before it’s gone and up in the air.

It’s a good toss, Tobio thinks. Not only is it tailored to Kindaichi’s height, but it’s also fast enough so that the opposing team won’t see it coming. Tobio twists around so quickly that he nearly cricks his neck because he hasn’t heard the satisfying smack of palm to volleyball, nor Kindaichi’s heavy steps towards the net before he pushed himself up, up to- 

Tobio turns around and the volleyball bounces on the ground feebly before rolling out of bounds.

Tobio doesn’t understand. Where was the spiker? Where’s Kindaichi? Where’s Kunimi? 

He feels this awful sensation in his chest, like his lungs are too uncomfortable residing in his ribcage and want to break free of the constraints of flesh and bone. Tobio’s staring at the ball, and he doesn’t understand, he can’t think, can’t move, can’t breathe-  _ won’t breathe- _

Oh. He isn’t breathing, hasn’t breathed since his toss landed on the ground, uninterrupted by neither blocker nor spiker, and now that he looks at coach he’s seeing black spots flicker at the edges of his vision.

_ That can’t be good _ , Tobio thinks absentmindedly, and his gaze rises from the ball lying on the ground back to coach, who looks like he’s saying something.

“-yama, get on the bench.”

It takes a moment for Tobio to process what coach is saying, and stumbles as he walks towards the bench. He grabs his towel and covers his head with it, and rests his elbows against his knees. He takes a swig of his water bottle on autopilot.

He jolts as the whistle to continue the game sounds ringing and shrill, and nearly drops his water bottle. Tobio’s hands are shaking, tiny tremors that make his shoulders twitch and his back hunch.

His returns his attention to the volleyball as a player from the other team ducks under the net and scoops it up. The player looks at him, before immediately averting his eyes. Tobio ducks his head a little, and stares at his knees. 

The odd feeling in his lungs hasn’t died down- nor has the unsettling blankness that has covered his eyes, seeped into his brain, and settled in his veins. 

I don’t understand, Tobio thinks distantly as the match starts up again. I tossed. It was a good toss, a strong toss, a toss fit for a-

His breath hitches, and his ribcage is suddenly an unbearable constraint. It’s squeezing him, all pressure and purple bruises and glass shards, and Tobio wants to tear open his chest so he can breathe. He wraps his arms around himself and digs his trimmed nails into the spaces in between his iron cage of ribs, and looks up.

The team-  _ his _ team- is determinedly not looking at him. They’re utterly focused on the game, but there’s something different about them- something strange about their posture, their expressions, their movements. They look calm in a deliberate sort of way, and they make their plays easily, but they’re a little nervous. Tobio can see it in the set of their shoulders and the curling of their fingers, and wonders why. 

But-

Tobio looks back at the volleyball as it’s tossed in the air by the pinch server on the other team, and thinks. His toes curl in his shoes.

* * *

 

It was always me, Tobio realizes sometime during the third set. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to him, but it does. He can’t bear to look at his team play together, happier than they have been in weeks, so he quietly gets up and walks to the locker room.

The locker room is much cooler than the volleyball courts, so he changes as quickly as possible and zips up his jacket. But Tobio is still cold, so he heads to the bathroom to wash his hands in warm water. Then he locks himself in a stall. 

Tobio sits on the toilet seat, drops his head to his knees, grips his hair tightly, and his face crumples.

He chokes on the noises that are wrenching their way out of his throat, and muffles his wails in his jacket sleeves. Tobio is sobbing and gasping and pleading, and he doesn’t hear it when the bathroom door opens and then closes several moments later.

After what feels like hours, Tobio unlocks his stall and washes away the tears that are smeared on his face. The water is ice cold, but he doesn’t feel it.

* * *

 

Tobio watches his teammates file onto the bus from beneath his eyelashes, and hunches down even further until his shoulder blades dig into the cushioning of his seat. He doesn’t look at Kindaichi and Kunimi. They don’t look at him either. 

Tobio nurses the ice in his chest that coats his ribcage and the frostbite that has crept into his heart, and presses his cheek to the window. If there’s a wet imprint on the glass after he gets off the bus, it’s nothing that any of his teammates would be concerned about.

**Author's Note:**

> feels a tad incomplete, but whatever,,can't do much about it now
> 
> thank u for looking at this madz!!!lov u<333
> 
> so some people have been asking about a sequel or something, which will definitely be happening!!! i don't know exactly when it's going to happen (probably not soon lol) but it will be happening

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hold Your Breath and Count to Ten](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10614021) by [Syorein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syorein/pseuds/Syorein)




End file.
